The Father-Daughter Dagga Boy by Anna Johnston Fisher

Few bonds are stronger than that of a father and a daughter. I understand this now, as I watch my husband cradle

our child in his arms, and she looks at him with large blue eyes. As a young girl, I enjoyed nothing more than

spending time in the outdoors with my father. Whether we were picking mourning dove out in the fields behind

our house, or scouting for big game in the mountains up north, I longed for both the companionship and the hunt

itself.

In 2017, we experienced our greatest adventure yet. My mother was so nervous that I had to take out a living will

before I left, making for one extremely awkward conversation with a lawyer. However, after a few days in the

bush of the Savé Valley stalking the Dagga Boy, I was grateful for her foresight. The Mbogo is unpredictable,

intimidating, and demands respect. No work of Capstick or Ruark, Boddington or Taylor, could have prepared

me for the ten days my father and I spent in its pursuit.

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The first time I saw the buffalo through the scope of a rifle, I was terrified. It was bigger, uglier, and more

intense than any animal I had ever seen. My finger shook on the cold trigger; I held my breath as I prepared to

pull. No shot. Lions, the unruly company that buffalo often keep, got the better of this opportunity as the buff

spooked and ran. The days that followed proved to be some of the most physically grueling and mentally

demanding that I have ever experienced. Yet our adrenaline pushed us onward, as did our singular quest of the

elusive Dagga Boy.

Our P.H. silently motioned for us to put our rifles on our bellies. In the distance, a small herd of wildebeest and

warthogs grazed in the tall grass. Beyond them, stood unsuspecting buffalo. Silently, we crab-walked through

plains game, careful to avoid their gaze. The weight of the rifle was heavy on my abdomen; our movements were

slow, deliberate. Eventually we made it to a narrow ravine, taking our position behind a tree. Carefully, our P.H.

directed our attention to the lone Dagga Boy. The boss was unique, flattened – much like a Texas Longhorn. I

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held my breath as my father slowly squeezed the trigger on his rifle. Yet the shot met its final resting place in the

trunk of a tree, as the buff turned and ran.

We continued to stalk the animal, relying on the skills of the trackers. Weaving in and out of the bush, we

continued at a half run, half walk pace. Eventually, we caught up to the larger herd, believing that our Dagga

Boy had rejoined them. We could see them in the distance, and hoped that the lone Mbogo was behind them.

Suddenly, for reasons unbeknownst to us, the herd turned and started to run. Limbs were cracking and the sound

of an angry, vindictive cape buffalo herd racing towards us was not one I will ever forget. For a minute my heart

stopped. “Tree!” our P.H. yelled, as the black mass sped towards us. I quickly took a position behind the largest

tree I could find, followed by my father and the P.H., and held my breath. Within yards of our position, for no

reason at all, the herd turned sharply to the right, away from us. Seconds passed. We started to laugh, giddily,

feeling a sense of relief and gratefulness to be alive, as we had survived our first stampede. Our trackers were

nowhere to be found. Eventually, when they knew the herd was a safe distance away, they began to descend out

of the tallest tops of the trees. That day I learned that trackers, however skilled they are on the ground, in the face

of danger (whether perceived or imminent) are totally concerned with self-preservation.

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In the days that followed, we took up the tracks of another lone Dagga Boy, only this one was indeed a ghost.

We never actually caught sight of him – just the lonely oxpeckers that accompanied him. An invisible buffalo, I

learned, is far more terrifying than an angry herd. We walked for miles following his drunken footsteps,

weaving in and out of the bush. At one point it was so thick, our visibility was reduced to about a foot. Grabbing

each other’s shoulders, we formed a single file line. Silently we stalked our prey, but it soon felt like we were

becoming the hunted. A twig snapped off to the side. Then, in another direction, a flock of panicked birds flew

shrieking into the air. The signs were the most fresh we had ever seen – yet the tracks formed a circle. I have no

doubt that he knew exactly where we were.

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Our safari continued, tags unfulfilled, as we covered miles in the bush each day. We passed up trophy kudu and

eland, impalas and giraffe. My ribs were now exposed, as we had covered well over 100 miles by foot. On the

final day, we decided to split up; I would go with a different P.H., while my father and Mike Payne, who had

guided us the entire safari, would go in search of the lone Dagga Boy. While I was off chasing the herds with a

madman named Leon and his trackers, I exuded a confidence I didn’t know I had. Meanwhile, my father finally

tagged his Dagga Boy, one hundred yards from where our safari first began, with three clean, perfectly placed

shots. His boss was worn down, stained red from the tree bark. The tips were rounded, his ears cut and scarred.

He was huge, a legend in his own right.

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For my father, the Dagga Boy represented a dream fulfilled (although hunting cape buffalo has a way of

becoming an addiction), and we look forward to future safaris. For us, it was never about the trophy. We had

flown to the Dark Continent to experience a cape buffalo hunt, and it did not disappoint. The safari itself, and

pursuit in fair chase, was more important than fulfilling a tag. These values, coupled with the respect that cape

buffalo demand, are ones that I hope to instill in my own daughter as we raise the next generation of responsible

hunters and huntresses. To experience an African safari is to adopt a way of life that cannot be learned anywhere

else. It is, truly, a life giving adventure.